


Synesthesia

by RyanTheTwit



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Implied Death, implied suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyanTheTwit/pseuds/RyanTheTwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Synesthesia, they called it. When you associate things with senses, and in Michael’s case- colors and feelings. Michael just calls it a pain in the ass when you’re in an office with loud people and your mind is bursting to the brim with experiences. Everyday is a new sensation whether he goes to the store where the soft murmuring of morning shoppers gently wakes him up or goes to a convention where it’s packed with an array of sparked brain synapses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synesthesia

Michael is no poet. He doesn’t write sonnets or use witty alliterations to bring the words on paper to life. He can’t analyze a poem by Oscar Wilde or interpret what Edgar Allan Poe really meant when he thought of lines upon lines of stanzas. And if he even thought of trying to write a ballad, he was pretty sure Shakespeare would roll over in grave.

Synesthesia, they called it. When you associate things with senses, and in Michael’s case- colors and feelings. Michael just calls it a pain in the ass when you’re in an office with loud people and your mind is bursting to the brim with experiences. Everyday is a new sensation whether he goes to the store where the soft murmuring of morning shoppers gently wakes him up or goes to a convention where it’s packed with an array of sparked brain synapses. But at work is where his mind goes crazy. When the office is loud with whirring monitors and the shouting of people all over the office, fireworks go off in his head. It gets to him sometimes; however, he knows his boys. Their voice, their soft breathing is like second nature to him. He knows their touch, their deep throaty laughter (Ryan) or their high pitched giggles (Gavin), their soft breathing and their habits. It’s part of the package. You can’t exclude anything otherwise it’s nothing. Not that Michael would want any of their personality removed. He knows their color. He get’s twitchy sometimes, but all he has to is focus on each and everybody’s voice and soak in what Michael feels.

Geoff is a deep, metallic blue that’s all sharp edges and heavy presence until he’s buzzed and the blue turns foggier and it’s more of a cool, early morning mist that’s prickling your skin in a pleasant way. He’s a distressed, stormy grey color with angry ocean blue streaks when he’s frustrated and the type of tiredness that hits you when you realize that it isn’t exactly physical. It’s deep in you mind where you would love nothing more than to sleep for years. When he wakes up he’s the pale blue that blends seamlessly with the sun and bounces off the water- lax and soft curves. He’s the smell of hot metal as it bakes in the sun; he’s the warmth of asphalt on a summer afternoon as waves of heat come off in a mirage. He’s raucous laughter as the warmth of liquor slides down your throat and there’s a buzz in your veins. He’s the emotion you feel when you finally come home after a long trip, and everything seems familiar and nothing is foreign. He’s the warm bed you are met with every night to comfort your aching bones. A stable grounding point that will bring you back down.

Jack is an orange that reminds you of the sweet ice cream you bought when the ice cream truck came around in the middle of hot July. An orange glaze that’s sweet and refreshing as the taste hits your tongue, and sticky as it slides stickily onto your hands. In the mornings, he’s an early, dawn sun that blends in with the soft blue Geoff is after they untangle themselves from the blankets and limbs, all curves and sloping valleys as the curtains part. After the caffeine hits, he’s the color of an autumn day’s leaves- dark from the haze that his dream refuse to let him shake out of, and then gradually the lightest orange not unlike the way orange creme looks when it’s dripping and splattering against the darkness of the unknown. He’s a day when the fall is melting into the spring with rustling leaves that are shaken from their branches by breezes that bring the promise of summer if you wait long enough. When he’s relaxed, he’s the color of the water when the setting sun bounces off the surface as the waves disrupt it, and the cool water feels like silk, parting easily under the force of your hands.

Ryan is a deep, deep purple that seems almost blue-black like the bruises Michael gets when he becomes too drunk and too rowdy. It’s the color of space as stars die and are reborn every minute, every second, every time Ryan breathes in and out or moves his fingers. He’s the color of the sky as the sun sinks beneath the horizon of a desert and delves into midnight as the nighttime stars arrive. He’s the unknown- mysterious yet painfully obvious. Ryan is the 2 A.M. feeling you get when the ceiling fan is slowly rotating over and that’s the only sign that you are there. He is the deep breath you take after a stressful day. He’s the deep bass of a slow song that you feel in your chest as your heartbeat matches the beat. When adrenaline runs through his veins and his heart pumping with feather-light touches from his fingertips, he is an Easter egg purple and the candy that waits inside. Ryan is forever moving, pumping and pulsing with life from the pulse in his wrists to the crack of his joints. The sharp, cold air in your lungs when it’s white with snow and the cloudy skies block the winter sun.

Gavin is a shade green that looks a little bit like an empty bottle with sunlight filtering through it, staining the material beneath it an odd color. He the smell of freshly clipped grass and the coolness of the cold glass of lemonade in your hand. He’s the feeling of unsticking your thighs from plastic chairs to jump into the cool water as it laps at the stairs of the pool and spills over the edge. He’s the soft fluttering of bird wings and the gurgle of water in a blue fountain. When he’s content, he’s the color of fresh mint and the coolness that bites. He’s moonlight spilling into open windows and between the trees. Gavin is an overgrown garden filled to the brim with life and the love that made it flourish. He’s a neon green that strains the eyes when he’s agitated, and a Granny Smith apple green when he’s full of energy and excited, but sometimes leaves a sour, bitter taste in your mouth when he knows Gavin is anticipating something awful. He is a lime green when he’s mischievous and giggling to himself, brewing some scheme to fuck with one or more of the members.

Ray is a yellow that reminds you of sunshine. He’s the feeling you get in the bottom of your stomach that swells up into your chest before tearing into present and diving into cheerful chatter. He’s a hug after a tiring day that rejuvenates you and fills you with content and calms you down. He’s hot pavement and pastel sidewalk chalk. In the evenings after six o’clock, he’s the pale yellow of young chicks peeking out of green grass. He is the golden yellow of a halo behind an angel’s head when he’s affectionate and sleepy, his touches soft yet leaving a warm weight. Ray is an afternoon nap in the sun when the temperature is just right and the heat is welcoming as it warms your skin. He’s soft sheets gripped between fingers and curling toes and languid stretches. When he’s angry, he’s the color of a wilting daffodil. Alternatively, he’s a sunflower in bloom when he’s happy. He’s a lazy day personified with his one-minute hair and hastily put on clothing that probably was under piles and piles of miscellaneous things. Sometimes, Michael can hear the soft vibrations of string instruments when he hears Ray talk underneath all that sunshine.

And Michael? Michael is red. He’s the red of dying red embers and the roar of great wildfires against a dark purple sky. He’s the taste of cherries in the middle of an orange July as the juice runs down your chin and coats your mouth in sticky sugar. He’s the crimson color of blood on a white backdrop and the color of fury. He’s the color of a crumpled up box of chocolates on Valentine’s with golden yellow ribbons that looks a bit like sunshine on pavement. He is the definition of anger, blood, and wild energy making your heartbeat flutter just like the deep bass that makes your heart skip a beat. He’s danger and he’s warnings. When he’s spiteful, Michael is a bad sunset where the sky is afire in a show of colors and nothing is right. He’s a dark red of jealousy and wrath. He’s curled fingers and bloody knuckles wrapped around a broken green beer bottle. He’s the red spilling out of wounds and seeping through clothing as he loses color and the pale blue that reminds him of the sky blending in with the sun of his veins are stark against his skin.

And red is the last color he sees as his mind finally quiets and brain synapses sparking die down and the burst of colors behind the door all metallic blue, orange creme, space purple, bottle green, and sunshine yellow are seeping from the crack between the floor and the door.

But he’s no poet.

 

 


End file.
